


How Smoke Dissipates

by sorrycas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, snoft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1883862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrycas/pseuds/sorrycas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Severus lay about in bed, contemplating whether or not they've got a case of domestic bliss. Or: Mycroft is being a whiny prat, Severus is being a mischievous cunt, and really, it's much too early for anyone to get cross.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Smoke Dissipates

Severus wakes from his doze to the putrid smell of smoke. Tobacco smoke. He stirs, white sheets whisper as they settle themselves around Severus as he shifts.

"I thought you'd quit those -- those -- what do you call those again?" 

"Cigarettes," replies Mycroft lazily, flicking ash into an empty teacup. Impeccable as Mycroft is with his appearance, sometimes he just couldn't be arsed to move his dirty dishware from the room. 

"Aren't those bad for you?" Severus asks groggily, frowning at Mycroft as he pulled at the white cigarette thing. "I think I read a muggle article about it. It's detrimental to health."

Mycroft blows out a puff of smoke in reply.

"Put it out," says Severus waspishly. When Mycroft continues to pull at his cigarette, Severus let out an impatient scoff and, smirk of mischief gracing his lips, shoots a thin stream of water at Mycroft from his wand. It's enough to put out the cigarette, and maybe enough to have soaked Mycroft's face in cold water. Mycroft splutters in surprise, long fingers still managing to perch the soggy, limp filter of the cigarette somewhat, and Severus -- well, Severus _snickers_. It rumbles low and deep in his chest, and Mycroft glares at Severus. He's lost his usual composure and resembles the likes of a drowned cat.

"I don't know why I put up with you," Mycroft grumbles half-heartedly. "Sometimes, you're worse than Sherlock."

"Oh?" Severus challenges, and Mycroft grimaces. Severus throws out a pale arm invitingly, and Mycroft slinks onto Severus's chest with the air of being disgruntled. Severus's mouth quirks up at the edges, and Mycroft huffs in what is very nearly a sulk. 

"Stop it, you," Mycroft says into Severus's chest. "I know you're smiling."

Severus doesn't reply, but lazily flicks his wand so that the teacup sends itself off to the kitchen sink, the china rattling the whole way.

"You needn't have done that," says Mycroft, still managing his clear and aristrocratic enunciation despite most of his face being completely pressed against Severus's chest. 

"Hm?"

"You're making me lazy. I'll put on weight again."

"Sherlock makes it up when he sees you, you know," says Snape. 

"I'll trust you," says Mycroft, "because you can read minds." 

"Legilimency," Severus corrects.

"But Sherlock is right. Domestic bliss," Mycroft says wistfully.

"So bitter," teases Snape.

"Sentiment. Affection. Home life. I'm going soft, Severus," continues Mycroft, fiddling with a spot of the white cotton sheets until the wrinkles were straightened out. 

"Hardly a home life," argues Severus reassuringly. "You could get called out to New York or Merlin knows where else at any moment. I have to go lead a double life of good and evil. We're still at the peak of our careers."

Mycroft fiddles with another spot of sheets doubtfully. They are quiet, a mildly companiable silence, with an aura of half-hearted unease (mostly emitted by Mycroft and his almost-sulk.)

"Come now," says Severus encouragingly. Mycroft looks up at Severus, and their lips meet in a gentle kiss. Severus wrinkes his nose.

"Your breath reeks of cigarette smoke," complains Severus, and Mycroft smirks into Severus's neck.

Mycroft's mobile chimes -- a text, which is ignored in favour of nosing along Severus's jawline in an attempt to memorize his scent. And then the mobile begins to vibrate in a demand of attention, and Mycroft exhales a familiar, long-suffering sigh before his hand scrambles for the mobile somewhere underneath the pillows and he swipes the screen with an air of practised precision. He presses the contraption to his ear to better listen to the tinny voice, and Severus watches Mycroft interact with the device in vague interest.

"Mycroft Holmes." A series of nods -- bad habit, the muggle speaking into the other device couldn't possibly see Mycroft -- "Book a flight for 6:00 PM sharp tonight. No, the prime minister needn't know, it'll be taken care of before he even needs to worry about it. Estimate of how long it will take to negotiate?" Pause. "All right. Thank you, I'll be seeing you shortly."

Mycroft resettles himself onto Severus's chest, eyes closed.

"A week," Mycroft answers the unspoken question. Severus strokes his hand through Mycroft's hair.

"Well, I've been putting off an uncomfortable talk with Dumbledore that will inevitably lead to an uncomfortable task."

They both sigh in sympathetic weighed-downness.

"Next week," Severus promises, pressing a chaste kiss into Mycroft's hair. He nudges Mycroft off of him and peels himself off of the matress. He pulls on the slightly wrinkled robe from the floor, deftly fastening the buttons as Mycroft watches absently.

"Don't come by the bloody fireplace next time," says Mycroft in a manner of goodbye. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

Severus smiles, the soft curve of his lips over his teeth and around his eyes seeming out of place with how severe his billowing robes made him look. One thing Mycroft amd Severus has in common is certainly a flair for the dramatic. Severus idly straightens a cuff, clears his throat, and, his gaze still lingering on Mycroft with an air of fondness, Severus disappears into thin air with a quiet _crack!_

Mycroft rolls on his back, and then out of the bed. Severus _is_ making him lazy, Mycroft thought wistfully as he contemplates a dove grey suit.

If Mycroft is the moon, and Severus is the sun, then all the barriers determined to keep them apart -- their jobs, obligations, hell, the fact that they come from different _worlds_ \-- is the smoke keeping them from ever fully elipsing into something beautiful.

And maybe, one day, that smoke will vanish into thin air instead of Severus.

Or maybe that domestic bliss is just going to Mycroft's head.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!
> 
> this is the first work i've posted to ao3, and i think i'll be focused on sherlock (snoft) on here.
> 
> the lovely EJ and I decided to christen this ship snoft.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i did writing it! ^^


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